Threads 254-Capital 6

Unlike when Ling Qi went out on her own, they did have to make a brief stop to get Xia Lin changed into something less ostentatious since her clothes were not self-adjusting, but thankfully, the other girl was just as good at controlling her qi as Ling Qi. That made their stroll through the twigward streets much less awkward than it could have been, though to Ling Qi’s amusement, the intensity of Xia Lin’s expression and gaze was enough to cow a lot of otherwise rude people, even without much qi backing it.

In deference to Xia Lin’s wishes, the first place they stopped at was a corner stall selling skewers of berries in a sweet syrupy covering. This was a Xiangmen specialty since the little berries and the coverings alike occurred in such quantities that no one had ever been able to take control of their harvesting. Or at least, that was the story the seller told anyway. Up here in the clouds, obviously, he had higher quality sources and so on and so on.

Ling Qi stopped listening fairly early on, but Xia Lin was intent on it, and the seller was happy to keep talking as long as Xia Lin kept buying more. The skewers were good though.

They moved on eventually, stopping here and there to listen in to musicians on the street, or to sit in on a tea house for poetry readings or performances. It went hand in hand with more stalls. At each one, they would sample the sweet buns or crepes or stranger concoctions and offerings. And each street chef assured them that their recipes and secrets were the best and passed down through the generations.

It seemed that in Xiangmen, even food had a touch of art to it.

Ling Qi hadn’t had the time or ability to appreciate cooking, but it wasn’t as if the vendors in Tonghou weren’t proud of their work. People wanted to feel like what they were doing mattered. Even if it was something as small as a clumsy poem or a slightly bland meat bun.

“I am not sure what secrets of cultivation you see in the filling of your dumpling, but it is getting cold,” Xia Lin said to her as they stopped under the awning of a theater, falling into line for the ticket seller.

Ling Qi blinked and gave her a dirty look, taking another bite. The plum filling was really good. “If you wanted another, you could have bought one.”

“I’ve had enough. It’s just a shame for good work to go to waste,” Xia Lin replied, folding her arms behind her back. “This is the place then?”

“Yes,” Ling Qi replied, glancing up at the theater’s sign. “I saw a show here yesterday. I wanted another opinion on it.”

Xia Lin hummed in response.

“What do you think of Xiangmen anyway? The place seems so frantic,” Ling Qi said. “You must find the chaos unpleasant.”

Xia Lin pressed her lips together in a thin line. “I do not think it is for me, but that is because I have chosen war as my profession. That does not make it bad.”

“Oh?” Ling Qi asked, moving forward with the line. “That’s not what I would have expected. You don’t look down on all this indiscipline?”

“War is not, and cannot be, a nation’s purpose,” Xia Lin said contemplatively. “Although a soldier must separate themself, this is what it means to be victorious, isn’t it?”

Ling Qi looked over the crowd. She could understand Xia Lin’s meaning. There was no fear of invasion or beast incursions here, but there were more dangers than that in the world.

“But I am an unsuited tool for addressing those dangers, so I must trust that those who hone themselves for such battles are up to their tasks,” Xia Lin replied. Ling Qi blinked, realizing she had spoken aloud.

“That is awfully trusting of you,” Ling Qi noted.

“A soldier must trust, or else they will break. I charge into an enemy unit, trusting that my fellows will be swift behind me to take advantage of the break I create. My unit must trust that our higher officers will coordinate our attacks, relieve our defenses, or at least find advantage in our sacrifice. Those officers, in turn, must trust that the General’s plan of operation is sound. The General must trust that we will be supplied and supported in a manner sufficient to complete our orders,” Xia Lin said. “Doubt kills.”

“And if your trust is mistaken?”

“Then we lose, and we die. That was the ultimate lesson of Ogodei,” Xia Lin answered simply.

Ling Qi grimaced. “An ugly choice.”

“It is as it is. Without trust, we can only be squabbling beasts.”

Thinking back to much dirtier streets, Ling Qi could only give a small nod.

“I see my accusations were correct though. You are truly an example to follow, finding such contemplation in plum jam,” Xia Lin said dryly.

Ling Qi stared at her. “D-did you just make fun of me for being too serious?”

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“I did no such thing,” Xia Lin replied seriously. “Come. We must purchase our tickets.”

As it turned out, Xia Lin found the show rather absurd, and she seemed rather baffled by the humor involved. After, they stopped at a proper restaurant to enjoy a meal, and then, with it over, they parted ways.

Ling Qi found herself once again walking the streets with only the muse in her head for company, watching the faint outline of bright moonlight twinkling in the gaps between titanic leaves overhead. Ling Qi wasn’t sure she agreed with Xia Lin. Or more specifically, she didn’t think “trust” was the right word.

“It’s a little fiddly. Ain’t language a rough one?” Sixiang drawled.

Ling Qi nodded, tracing her fingers through the air, feeling at seams invisible to even the average cultivator as she passed into the dark between a closed shop and a roaring tavern, stepping into the shadow dappled alley that lay between, strewn with crates and detritus. “I think trust implies something too personal and conscious.”